


don’t weep for me (i’m not really gone)

by WillowsAndWastelands



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fake Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutual Pining, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Temporary Character Death, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:57:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowsAndWastelands/pseuds/WillowsAndWastelands
Summary: You never really know what you have, until you think you’ve lost it.Steve thinks Tony is dead. Tony doesn’t know Steve cares.But grief has a funny little way of unraveling people’s hearts and souls. Maybe, just maybe to the benefit of these two idiots.And good for them. Because it hurts. But it’s worth it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so i have severe post-endgame sadness (don’t worry, no spoilers here), and i had to write some good-for-the-soul steve/tony before i died from drowning in my own tears. 
> 
>  also come visit me on tumblr @WillowsAndWastelands
> 
> this will be a three chapter fic, likely done by the end of this week. please leave kudos and comments bc i love hearing from you guys. please enjoy!

Tony is having a bad day. 

And not just the kind of bad day where nothing seems to go right, he’s tired and angry, or Clint falls out of the vent in his workshop, lands rather ungracefully (meaning he completely faceplants) onto his glass table, and destroys the intricate project he’s been working on for the past five hours. In fact, the day he’s having sucks so much that that little scenario sounds like heaven right now. 

Yeah. It’s safe to say that Tony is having a really, really bad day. 

“JARVIS, where am I hurting at?” he says, flipping his helmet on over his aching head. He can already feel the dramatic goose egg raising in the back of his skull from the spill he just took on the pavement. It was a sudden explosion, and as unexpected as unexpected explosions can be. The force had knocked him onto the hot pavement like he was a blade of grass in the wind, skinning up his hand and banging up his brain. 

The suits spreads itself up his body from his wrist watch at his command, covering him in the familiar and comfortable armor. Lights flash in front of his face, verifying identity before the schematics explode in front of him to show all available information about the situation. 

JARVIS’ voice is clear as a bell (Jesus, he could use a volume adjuster) when it comes through the display. “Sir, you appear to be suffering a mild to moderate concussion and several first degree burns. I’d advise you immediately contact the team for back—“ 

“Just tell me what I’m looking at, J.” Things were tense at the tower right now, and he didn’t want to ask anyone for help. Even breakfast, a notoriously enjoyable occasion amongst their team, had been a strained thing when he left from it this morning to attend a business meeting. A business meeting that, evidently, wasn’t worth waking up at the ungodly hour of seven a.m. for on account of the fact that no sales were closed and he was dragging himself and his ruined, expensive suit from the bloody sidewalk. 

See, the thing about living with extraordinary people, is how extraordinarily stressed out they can all get. And recently, things have just been getting worse and worse for everyone. Bruce has been a shade too green for a few weeks now amidst his failing experiments, Thor uncharacteristically quiet as he wrestles with family issues in wake of another Loki incident, and Natasha seemingly awake at all hours of the night—unable to sleep and unwilling to answer why. 

And none of these objectively shitty experiences even holds a candle to whatever the fuck Steve’s problem is recently. The man, who’s long since gotten over his (in Tony’s eyes, well warranted) initial analysis of the fantastic “Iron Man” character, usually can almost always be found in Tony’s workshop, sketching and laughing and keeping Tony company that Tony didn’t even know he needed. 

He could usually almost always be found being Tony’s best friend. (And his secret, unrequited love interest but only Pepper and Rhodey needed to know about that. Don’t judge him— a man’s got to complain to someone about super soldiers that look impossibly kissable with helmet hair and a tattered uniform. God.) 

But as of late, Steve was weirdly angry. Angry at pretty much anything or anyone that came into his line of sight. And it’s understandable. He’s got a lot to be angry about; not feeling like he belongs in this century, losing almost everyone he’s ever loved, etc. The only real problem with it is that because Tony makes up so much of his day, he ends up taking most of the heat. And Steve isn’t the loud, bearable type of angry person either. No, he’s the quiet, unbearable type of angry. He’s just damn near silent, brooding. He gives short answers. He doesn’t want to talk. Stop asking. 

And that gets to Tony— being shut out (never mind if that’s hypocritical of him.) It hurts especially because Steve had never shut him out before. They’d grown together over the past couple years like trees in a compact space; twisting up their wounds until the other’s branches could cover them. Steve had held Tony’s hands in the kitchen when they shook at one in the morning after a nightmare. Tony had made a million home adjustments (the heating bill was outrageous) to make sure Steve was never cold enough in his bed, all alone, to be reminded of the ice. They comfort each other, they talk to each other, they take care of each other. 

Or at least, they had. Now, Steve apparently picks up week long missions in Georgia and doesn’t bother to tell Tony in person— just puts a post-it note on Dummy’s claw for him to find that says: “Fury called.”

And Tony is so goddamn pathetic, because he calls Fury right back to demand answers for how long he’s going to be gone. 

Tony’s been counting the days. He should have been back this morning to see him off before he made the three-hour trip to see the stockholders that don’t give a shit about him. He should have been back this morning to tease him lightly about his dumbass monkey suit, but ultimately see through his snarky act and see just how stressed he was about the whole thing and give him the hug that he’s not brave enough to ask for but needs nonetheless. 

He should have been back this morning, because Tony is (or used to be) pretty sure Steve is (was) one of three people in the whole wide world that truly gives half a shit about him. 

But Tony gets it. He does. He’s not very likable to begin with on first impression, and he can only imagine how much more annoying his presence can get over time. Hell, he should know since he has to live every miserable day in his own company. He knows firsthand just how easy it is to grow to hate Tony Stark and just how impossible it is to love him. Frankly, it’s nothing short of a miracle Pepper and Rhodey have stuck around for as long as they have. (But he stopped telling them that, because it made them so sad for some stupid reason.)

Steve is smart. Less attached than Tony had anticipated, which hurts, but he understands. He must have finally been made aware of all the chinks in Tony’s incredibly dented armor and figured out that he’s not worth it. Which is smart. Tony can respect smart. He knows from experience after years of fixing cars that some things are so broken, so stupid, so unlovable that they’re a waste of time. 

And if it aches something soul shatteringly awful knowing Steve made this assessment of him, then so what? He’ll live. He knew this about himself years ago— it’s not like it’s new fucking information or anything. He’ll survive, thank you very much. 

He just has to quiet the little voice in the back of his head and in the bottom of his heart that agrees with him, “you’ll survive. but how long without him are you going to want to?” 

And Tony supposes he has the rest of the team. They’ve become a family of sorts— as dysfunctional as shit, but still a family. They care about him enough— at least as a teammate— to want Tony to be well. He doesn’t know if they necessarily love him (conveniently omitting from his mind the fact he knows with all his soul that he loves them, because that shit just hurts) but they don’t want him to die. 

And that’s enough, he tells himself. He doesn’t need Steve. He’s got a few people who think Iron Man is useful enough to keep around. Maybe not “Tony,” but definitely his metal-booted extension of himself. Even in all his suffocating self-loathing, has to admit that when he’s in the suit, he’s a pretty badass addition to the team. It’s just when he steps out of it, is all, that he becomes next to worthless again. 

God, if Banner asks him to one more movie night when they clearly don’t really want him there, he thinks he might turn the tables and Hulk out on Bruce. 

“Sir, need I repeat myself?” JARVIS’ voice abruptly stirs him from his thoughts. Tony startles, wondering how long he’s been wallowing in self-pity instead of dealing with the potentially very dangerous task at hand. “You haven’t reacted to my assessment of the situation, though I delivered it fifty-four seconds prior. Perhaps the concussion is more severe than my scanners have detected. I’ll call for medical immedia—“

“Don’t,” Tony near shouts, shaking himself out of his stupor. Fuck, he thinks. Pull it together. “Run it for me one more time.” 

“Are you certain, Sir? I could contact Rogers for assistance. He has recently arrived at the tower and appears to have nothing scheduled.”

“JARVIS, I swear to God, I’ll dismantle your software if you don’t just tell me what the fuck is happening!” It’s an empty threat, of course, but Tony’s patience is running thinner by the minute. His head is throbbing like a bass riff in a club he’s way too old to be at, and he just wants to wrap it up so he can go home. 

“Right away, Sir.” Tony knows he’s not imaging how cold the AI manages to sound. Goddammit. Now he’s gotta apologize to a computer (why the fuck he had to make him so sensitive, he’ll never know)— but later, because he’s already wasted precious time. “A detonation occurred roughly two moments ago from the first floor of the building shortly after your exit. It’s reasonably assumable that the bomb’s effects were intended for you, but were unsuccessful.”

“Evidently,” Tony responds sarcastically, seeing as he’s still (unfortunately) alive. “Do we have a perp on scene? Or are they making my life unnecessarily difficult?”

“I detect heat signatures from a nearby location, Sir. All are in possession of heavy duty firearms.” 

Tony examines the scene, feels relief that he was the last one out of the building to avoid civilian casualties, but tenses when he becomes aware of the crowd that’s amassed behind him. They’re snapping pictures his armor, oblivious to the danger they’re in and seemingly indifferent to the fact that they’re within a hundred feet of an active fire. 

“First priority is getting these idiots out of here,” Tony tells JARVIS under his breath. “Police have already been alerted?” 

“With all due respect, Sir, my software which you seem so inclined on ‘dismantling’ had me alert emergency services before you were even in the suit,” is JARVIS cool-delivered, scathing response. 

Tony rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they might get stuck there. He takes a deep, calming breath before speaking. “I am sorry, JARVIS. I should not have said that.” When there’s no reply, he adds, just to sweeten the motherfucking pot, “You know I can’t do this without you, buddy.” 

“Yes, Sir. I am well aware.” And at least the AI sounds satisfied when he answers so Tony knows they can get some actual work done now. 

Turning to face the perpetually growing crowd, Tony puts on a just-for-show smile, even though it dimly registers in his head that they can’t see it behind the mask. “Ladies and gentleman, if you’d exit the perimeter safely, that’d be great! Fire and police will be here soon as well as ambulances if you need assistance!” Tony yells, and JARVIS automatically amplifies his voice through the suit. “We are still in an active crime scene, so for the love of all that is holy, please just fucking leave!” 

JARVIS alerts him to a screen notification that indicates the arrival of the cops, so Tony finally feels comfortable enough to turn around and get some sweet, sweet preemptive revenge for the migraine he’s about to be nursing for the next few days. 

“Give me a target, J,” Tony says, engaging the flight facilities of the suit. Call him an adrenaline junky, but he still feels a rush of exhilaration as he lifts into the air, even after all these years. God, there’s nothing quite like it. “I want something to shoot at.” 

“Gladly, Sir.” 

He rockets up into the sky, feeling the armor shift around him to make the aerodynamics optical for his ascent. It’s an addictive feeling, though he won’t admit just how much he loves it. In his experience, when he admits his feelings, they usually get ripped away. 

“In the parking lot to your left, sir. There appears to be five heavily armed targets in a vacant lot on the twenty-second floor,” JARVIS says, breaking him from his thoughts. 

“Let’s play ball,” Tony quips. 

The flight is short, and he spends most of it readying the suit’s weaponry mechanics; engaging repulsors and having the good sense to tuck away his more explosive technology. 

He’s more than a little concussed, right about now. He doesn’t need to be responsible for a second detonation today. 

When he lands on the rooftop, the reaction is immediate. The five men startle a little, but then jerk their guns up to their shoulders; so nervous that the barrels on all of them shake. No, scratch that, Tony notes. There’s one man— a bald man with a shitty neck tattoo— who doesn’t do anything. He’s a big guy, too; bulking muscles, heavy shoulders. He’s just standing there, smiling, confident, gun limp in his arms. 

Tony immediately hates him. 

“Alright, kids. Practice is over with that little bomb trick. It’s game time now,” Tony says, bringing up his hands and locking his knees in preparation for a fight. When no one makes a move, Tony laughs, the sound bitter and mocking. “Why don’t you fuckwads ever have a Plan B?” 

“Because we don’t need one,” the bald, strong man says, stepping forward in the formation, closer to Tony. It’s a tad suicidal, Tony thinks, and he only thinks he’s even crazier when he has the audacity to smile. “We’re still en route to Plan A.” 

“And who the fuck are you?” Tony snarls, shifting his left-handed repulsor to him. But the man doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t react in the slightest. Tony feels a chill run up his spine. 

As if to affirm Tony’s instinct, the man says, grinning “I’m the guy that’s gonna bury you, Stark.”

“That’s real sweet, sugar,” Tony says, a false note of humor in his voice he hopes they don’t detect. He doesn’t think any of this is funny, his head fucking hurts, goddammit. “But I think you’re gonna have to get in line.” 

“Oh, I’m at the front,” the man responds, still somehow unbothered. He just smiles, shakes that dumb bald head. “I’ve waited a long time for this.” 

And Tony’s heard just about e-fucking-nough of this, so he clenches his wrist to fire the repulsor, killing the idiot where he stands. 

But the man is impossibly faster. He raises his gun, flicks the safety and fires before Tony can even blink. 

And of course, because today is a very, very bad day, it’s not a normal gun. 

It’s never a normal gun. 

An electric current shoots up from his stomach where the barrel was aimed— crawling up the wires of his suit.

It’s not an exaggeration to say it feels like they fucking deep-fried his arms and legs in hot, sparkling oil. It burns something terrible, and Tony’s screaming before he can mute the helmet’s speakers, before he can stop the world from knowing just how bad it hurts.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is he’s plunged into darkness— the suit evidently unable to stand the technical interference. It becomes an iron coffin crumpling beneath him. He falls to the pavement for the second time that day, feeling the full weight of the heavy machine press into his unfortunately very human, very organic, very vulnerable body. 

And then the shock hits his heart. 

He can’t 

Breathe 

He can’t 

He can’t Jesus Christ 

Where’s the air 

It hurts it burns it hurts it 

It burns it hurts where’s the air 

Breathe he can’t he can’t 

He can’t 

Breathe

He’s thinking of Steve 

And he’s sorry and he loves him and he’s sorry

And he can’t breathe 

And he’s sorry and where’s the air

And then he can’t see 

And he stops screaming 

And he’s sorry and he loves him and

And then 

There’s nothing. 

 

———————————-

And the day just gets worse when he wakes up some place dark. 

Some place quiet. 

Some place with his hands tied behind him, duct tape over his mouth. 

Some place with the bald man and the shitty neck tattoo. 

Some place where the bald man smiles, and says, “everyone thinks you’re dead Stark. And no one gives a shit.”


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds out, and he can’t breathe. 
> 
> Tony wakes up, and that’s all it seems he has the time to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your support on the first chapter!! this is my first ever marvel fic and it’s been so much fun writing it. 
> 
> come find me on tumblr @willowsandwastelands
> 
> please leave kudos and comments because i love hearing your feedback!! 
> 
> please enjoy!!

Steve is having a bad day. 

And not just the kind of day where Fury keeps him overnight and into the morning in his office to run over the same mission report he gave an hour ago upon his arrival, an intern spills cold coffee on his pants, and he misses Tony like fucking crazy and won’t even get to see him until he gets back from his business trip in three goddamn extra days— though that all happened today, too. 

He’s also having a bad day because Thor beat the shit out of him in their sparring match. 

“I wish you the better of the luck next time, brave Captain,” Thor says from above him when he leans down to offer his hand. Steve takes it, albeit grudgingly, and is pulled to his feet. His whole body protests, bruises rippling when he moves. It’s all he can do to suppress a groan. “Perhaps it was for the waffles the great Anthony so valiantly prepared for me this morning that I bested you today. Be fair to yourself. You were not of the same advantage.”

“No, you won,” Steve says, waving him off and going in search of his abandoned water bottle. “Fair and square— you kicked my ass into next Sunday.” 

“Perhaps a rematch soon then, Captain? When you have recovered your strength?” Thor asks, obviously eager and pleased with himself for having won without even using any of his supernatural abilities.

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says, noncommittal. 

“I bid you farewell, then.” He hears the demigod exit the room, quietly humming the same Asgardian song of victory he does after every successful battle. Steve can’t help smiling beside himself. It’s endearing is all, even if he’s gonna be hurting for a few hours. 

The physical ache isn’t such a big deal, really. He’s been hurting for a long time now, and it’s near impossible to separate the sources of throbbing weight in his chest. They blend together perfectly; one big bruise that doesn’t differentiate from his emotional, mental exhaustion and the complete smackdown a thousand-year-old Norse god just hand-delivered to him. It all hurts on one perfect, indistinguishable pitch. 

But, like any bruise, it has a center. You can press on the edges (in Steve’s case; his loneliness, fear of being an unworthy leader, knowing he can’t ever really go home) and it’ll be far less painful than if you apply pressure to the middle (his unrequited feelings for Tony, grief for his friends, shame in how he’s handling it all.)

He had hoped to catch Tony before he left for his shareholder and sales meetings today, though Fury tripped him up with other plans. He had wanted to apologize for being a bad friend recently (he’s just been in a lot of pain, though he’d never admit that’s why), thank him for not throwing Steve out on his ass for his asshole behavior, and tell him he loved him. Even if he couldn’t tell him just how he loved him, he wanted Tony to at least know Steve loved him as a friend. Tony just always has this look in his eye, like he doesn’t know. 

Like he doesn’t know Steve would do anything for him. 

Like he doesn’t know Steve is in love with him. 

“Captain.” Steve jumps nearly a foot in the air at JARVIS’ abrupt interruption from his thoughts; robotic voice coming loud and strong over the speakers. 

“Jesus Christ, give a fella a little warning!” he exclaims, settling a hand on his chest and feeling the pounding pulse there. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Captain, it would be preferable for you to sit down before I share this information with you,” the AI says, voice more somber than he’s ever heard it in the two years that he’s called the tower home. Steve’s blood runs cold. JARVIS should have apologized. He always apologizes when he scares them. He doesn’t ask them to do something. He’s never done that. “I’m afraid this may be difficult for you to process, and risk for injury should be minimized as much as possible.” 

“I’ll um, I’ll stand,” Steve says, knowing if he sits that he’ll feel even more unsteady and unprepared. He tries to take a deep breath through his nose and out his mouth, but it doesn’t do much good. He’s not sure he wants to know, but he asks anyway, “What’s happened?”

The heaviest silence of Steve’s life fills the room. And then: “Tony is dead, Captain Rogers.” 

And it’s the funniest thing. Because

Steve can’t breathe. 

He’s been able to breathe since the serum, is what’s so funny about that. The serum took care of his asthma, you see, and he never struggled for breath after that. 

And Steve has seen so many people fight for breath in his life. He saw Dr. Erskine spit up blood from his lungs (dead), watched Bucky gasp in the winter air when he fell (dead), witnessed his mom pass on from tuberculosis, choking up oxygen till her last day (dead).

And they’re all dead. 

Like Tony. 

“No,” Steve blurts out, shaking his head. It doesn’t make sense. It makes absolutely no sense. “No, no… You--- you made a mistake, Jarvis. That can’t be…. That’s not…” 

“Captain, I advise for you to take a deep breath,” JARVIS says, calm and quiet, sure and steady. If Steve didn’t know better, it would be like he was being made fun of. He’s asking him to do the one thing he can’t. 

“Can he breathe?” Steve finds himself gasping, out of his control. He really can’t get air into his chest right now, and all he’s thinking about is whether or not Tony feels the same. Because Steve is worried about him because he has to worry because Tony is still alive and can be hurting. He can still be alive and not be breathing. “Can he breathe where he is, Jarvis?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question, Captain,” JARVIS responds, a questioning lilt to his response. “I believe you’re verging hysteria. I’m contacting immediate help before you can harm yourself.”

“JARVIS, just tell me that he can breathe,” he gets out between wild, airless gasps. “Can Tony breathe?”

“No, Captain.” There’s a hesitation, a silence filled with only Steve’s wordless not-breathing that sounds awfully similar to the asthma attacks he used to get as a sick kid, and then JARVIS elaborates, “I’m afraid I don’t understand the importance of this answer to you in particular. But if you must know, the diagnostics I have run state the electrical shock that was his cause of death immediately stopped his heart and lung function.” Another painful, agonizing, oxygenless moment passes. “I’m sorry, Captain. Tony could not breathe.” 

Steve doesn’t feel his knees hit the floor, but he hears it. It’s an off-tempo beat to his fruitless gasps; like a drumbeat that doesn’t belong and 

Tony doesn’t belong with the dead it doesn’t make sense Tony 

Tony can breathe Tony is always breathing he’s always breathing when Steve watches him work in his shop and breathe over the comm line in the middle of a mission and he’s breathing in Steve’s dreams when he leans in to kiss him like he can’t in real life and what 

What the fuck does JARVIS mean he couldn’t breathe what does I’m sorry mean when Tony is breathing Steve can hear it he swears he can he can he can he has to be because 

Steve loves him and Steve can’t bear to have loved and lost him he can’t live through that and because Steve’s not dead Tony’s not dead 

But maybe because Tony can’t breathe

Steve can’t breathe 

Oh god oh god oh god no no no no

He thinks he hears the elevator door open, and he knows it does when several voices fill the room but he doesn’t really care because he 

Still can’t fucking breathe

“Steve, look at me,” Steve hears Natasha’s voice in his ear, sees her black socks on the hard floor, feels his face pressed on the tile and wonders how he got there and then doesn’t care when he remembers that neither he nor Tony can breathe. 

“We can’t breathe,” he whispers to her, as loud as he can through his empty chest. He closes his eyes because everything starts to spin and swirl and make no sense anymore. “Tony… I can’t breathe!” 

“Bruce, I need that sedative now!” Nat shouts from above him. He feels her hand go in his, feels her iron grip come down on his hand. Steve appreciates that. He thinks he’s gonna fall off the earth without it. “Steve, you’re going into shock.”

“Make him breathe,” Steve gets out, choking up what feels like water, blood, snow, snot, and electric wire. “Please… he needs to breathe…” 

There’s a sharp stabbing pain the same arm Natasha is holding, and then a low burn that spreads up his shoulder. It hurts, but not as bad as the pain in his lungs which is only getting worse, and worse, and worse and 

He’s drifting now 

Like he had until a few years ago now

Sailing on the ocean in a plane that should have sunk 

Should have killed him then 

Because he knows, 

Even though he hears Nat’s voice saying, “That’s it, just breathe, Steve.”

He knows he’s never gonna be able to breathe 

Again. 

\--------------

 

Tony’s strained breath is the only sound in the otherwise silent room he’s being held in. He counts his inhales, counts his exhales, and holds it because there’s just nothing else to do. He even gets up to forty seconds before stars dance in front of his vision and he has to breathe again. 

It’s a game to keep him from thinking about what he knows. Because when he thinks about that, his already shit mood gets impossibly worse. 

He knows that people really do believe he’s dead. The man, who’s Tony taken to calling “Baldie”, showed him the live news footage. He proved it via video on his shitty Apple phone (why people still buy from those clowns when Stark technology is objectively better priced and far superior, Tony will never know). Baldie looked on wearing that same cruel smile while news anchors with (in Tony’s opinion) unreasonably somber voices talked over footage of the initial explosion, the blood spilled all over the parking garage, and worst of all— scraps of his armor and obliterated helmet lying destroyed on the pavement. 

Tony knows these assholes must have deep fried JARVIS before the AI could come back online and know he’s still kicking. They must have ripped Tony out of the suit to revive him just in the nick of time (for reasons Tony personally thinks are dumb as shit.)

He wondered for a while how they managed to pry him out of his armor (the thing is damn near indestructible, he should know, he built it that way), but that’s something else Tony knows now, too. 

Turns out Baldie is enhanced. He could see the inhuman, orange glow radiating off him even in the dark of his cell. Something to do with AIM and extremis bullshit, but he spends very little time analyzing it. He just doesn’t really think it matters too much. 

Something he does think about too much is how fucking stupid he is. Well-intentioned, definitely. But stupid nonetheless. 

Within a month of announcing himself as Iron Man, Tony had built a protocol for the event of his death. (Come on, he’s not that optimistic. He knows none of this is gonna end well for him.) He’d programmed it so JARVIS would alert Pepper, Rhodey, then the media in the (inevitable) event he was killed in action. And when the team had moved in—woven themselves into Tony’s life, became people he loved—he altered the protocol so JARVIS would let them know, too. 

Everyone trusted JARVIS. The AI was infallible. He was the voice of reason, and everyone knew it. They’d believe him when they told them Tony was dead. Unfortunately. 

Because he’s not dead. And they think he is. And that means no one’s coming for him. 

“You think they’ll bury the armor, in place of your body?” Baldie had asked, still wearing that stupid fucking smile. “I just hope they can make do, is all.” 

“Look, Mr. Clean,” Tony said, patience skipped right past the wearing-thin phase and right into the if-not-for-the-laws-of-this-land-I-would-have-slaughtered-you mode. “What do you want from me? 

Baldie’s grin got impossibly bigger. “I wanted your head on a stake to start with. But now, I reason, why can’t I have more?” 

“I was never very good with the riddles. What the fuck do you mean by ‘more’?” 

Tony’s been in about a dozen hostage situations, and the one thing they all have in common is how fucking annoying they are. And terrifying. But mostly annoying as shit. 

“Rumor on the street is you’re a mechanic,” Baldie said. “Apparently, no one can beat you at fixing broken shit. And you’ve got more blood on your hands than you have money in the bank.” There was an out of place pause, oddly serene. It was broken when Baldie lunged, fist connecting to Tony’s jaw with the force of a fucking sledgehammer. Tony let out a groan before he could stop it, and Baldie smiled so big when he heard it. “But there’s no hurry. We don’t have to talk about that now.” 

The blow only made the aching in his head impossibly worse, like his brain was in a blender. But worse than that pain came the guilt. Tony knew he shouldn’t feel wounded as deep as he did since it was received from this asshole, but the familiar sickness still sank down deep into his stomach; settled there heavy. 

“Whatever you’re gonna ask me to fix,” Tony started. He tried, but he couldn’t keep his head from lulling until his chin hit his chest. Fuck, it all hurt. “Whatever you’re gonna make me fix… Have you tried turning it off and on first?” 

He laughed to himself, even though it wasn’t that funny. Just wanted to (probably unwisely) piss Baldie off further. 

A scorching hot hand abruptly threaded through his hair, pulling him up to the point of pain. Tony felt tears sting at the edges of his eyes, a sob catch in his throat, blistering heat press against his face. God, he just wanted to go home. 

“You’re a real funny guy, Stark,” Baldie had snarled, sounding for the first time like he wasn’t smiling. It didn’t give Tony the satisfaction he thought he was going to get. His disappointment was immeasurable. “You know what I think is so fucking funny?” When Tony didn’t respond, Baldie just pulled harder on his hair, jerking him to the left like he was a fucking nascar driver’s steering wheel. “Answer me!” 

The yelp that came from Tony was involuntary, as was the shout that followed when Baldie pressed his other hand against the side of his neck— searing the skin there. “What?” Tony gasped in desperation. A pause filled with just pain, pain, pain. “I don’t know!”

And then Baldie was off him, backing up and smiling again. Tony could hardly see through the water that’d accumulated in his eyelashes; staring blearily at the man. 

“You’re gonna fix our guns, you’re gonna fix my extremis, and— here’s the kicker, Stark.” Tony saw, heard, then felt, Baldie’s boot crash into his rib cage; a sickening crunch echoing in the room. Tony bit down on his tongue, choking down the scream, but it was a close thing. “You’re gonna do all that. You’re gonna do everything I ask. And I’m still gonna kill you.” 

Tony just clenched his face, shook his head, rocked slowly in the chair because if he didn’t move— if he didn’t do something, he’d break. And he couldn’t break yet. Not if he wanted to be home. 

Not if he wanted to see Steve again. (Who’s he kidding? Home doesn’t mean shit if Steve’s not there.)

Luckily, Baldie seemed to have had his full of fun as he laughed to himself, small and refined; a complete opposite of the unhinged man he’d revealed just a moment ago. Tony heard his footsteps pass him, pause at the door for a moment— as if deciding something, before he flicked out the lights and left. Leaving him alone and aching in the dark. 

It’s been a few hours since then, now. And Tony’s still hurting something awful; but at least he can let his tears fall freely, knowing no one can see them in the pitch black space.

He doesn’t like to think of the dark. He doesn’t like to think of this cold achiness— so similar to the pressure of space and nukes, and Afghanistan caves. So he thinks of other things. 

He thinks of how Pepper must be holding up, remembers her telling him how he hates job hunting and experiences a surge of guilt at that, but feels better when he remembers just how much money he’d left for her. She could take her time looking. She could work at a non-profit for three lifetimes with what JARVIS had surely wired into her account by now. 

He thinks of Rhodey, wonders if he’s already flown home from his top-secret, exotic mission in Florida that Tony isn’t supposed to know anything about (which of course, he knows everything about. Call him crazy, but he keeps tabs on his sugar bear. And always has a suit stationed within sixty miles of him, whether Rhodey knows it or not. Paranoia pays off.) He’s known Rhodey since the good old days of MIT, was his only friend for years and years, and he’s still never seen him cry. Tony doesn’t think he’ll cry when JARVIS tells him he’s dead. He’ll just do what he always does when he’s angry or sad: purse his lips, stare at the ground, and say what has to be said. So Tony’s wondering what he’s saying right now. 

He also thinks of the team, wonders if they’re sad. Thinks of Natasha flipping the dagger he gave her as a Christmas gift to distract herself, Clint steering clear of the workshop vents, Thor bringing rain upon the tower, Bruce trying to cook a dinner nice enough to bring them all into the same room. All of them there at the dining table, talking about how much they’re going to miss their shellhead. 

It’s a nice thought, but he still wants to be realistic. They probably won’t be that hurt personally. It’s not like Tony himself is too much to lose. 

But Iron Man might be. They’re probably trying to figure out who will replace him as aerial and tech. Maybe they already found someone. 

And that hurts. Though Tony would like to preserve his pride— say he’s a man of reason and knows logically that they have to do it sooner rather than later. But it still smarts like his ribs when he takes a breath to think of how sad it all is. He came from a family that didn’t love him, though he searched high and low for their affection (studied every subject to please his father, learned Italian for his mom) and still came up short. At least he can say he was honorable with the Avengers. He loved them for no sake other than to love them. He protected them, cared for them, built for them, lived for them— and never once asked for or expected anything in return. 

He thinks maybe Steve loves him. Or, no— did love him. Loved him. Past tense. But then Tony must have peeled off too many layers; exposed the most broken parts of himself between their lazy workshop days, failed missions, and post-nightmare discussions. And that’s not Steve’s fault. 

He’s a mechanic, remember? 

He’s seen his fair share of hopeless cases. 

He knows he’s too broken to fix. 

He knows it’s probably better for everyone to let a hopeless thing like him go. 

It’s a good thing he’s selfish. It’s a good thing he wants to live to see Pepper and Happy’s wedding, welcome Rhodey back home, have JARVIS tell him Natasha finally got a good night’s sleep, watch another mind-breakingly boring nature documentary with Bruce, fix Thor’s armor for the fifth time that month, make Clint a new quiver because fuck, that thing is old. Even if they don’t want him there, he wants it enough for all of them combined and then some. 

And he wants to tell Steve the truth. Wants to tell him how he loves him. Wants to be ready for the day that’s really his last. Wants to die with no words stuck in his throat. 

He wants to live. 

So in the dark room, he plans. 

And God help those who fuck with Tony Stark’s plans. 

 

——————

Steve is dreaming. 

It’s odd. He hasn’t dreamed in so long. 

He’s usually too tired to do anything but fall into the black abyss of sleep when he finally gets the chance; just an empty void where he rests. Peaceful. Quiet. 

This is not peaceful. This is not quiet. 

Tony isn’t breathing in his dreams. He’s bloody, bruised, purple, veins exploding from his face in violent shades of green and blue. Not to mention his eyes— the eyes that move, but never blink. A dead man’s eyes. 

And Tony’s just watching him with those dead man’s eyes from behind a sheet of glass; a sheet of glass that Steve can’t destroy, no matter how hard he beats on it. His hands ache and bleed, but the glass doesn’t break. 

He gets the feeling that the Tony on the other side doesn’t want it to break. (And fuck, if that doesn’t make it hurt somehow impossibly worse.) 

Steve screams himself hoarse, kicking and shouting.

“I’m sorry!” he yells, and his voice is an ugly, mangled thing. Tony deserves someone who sounds like an angel, but Steve genuinely thinks this is hell. “Tony, please— please, breathe! I’m so sorry!” 

Tony just watches him. Cold. Unempathetic. Lifeless, in all the ways that Tony has never been before. In the only way that Tony will ever be now. 

“I love you— I’m so sorry,” Steve sobs. He doesn’t know when he started crying, gets the feeling he might have been the whole time, but he can’t stop. He can’t stop, and he’s so sorry. 

Steve falls to his knees. He’s covered in blood and self-inflicted bruises, but it doesn’t hurt anything like how he used to hurt. There is no stomaching this. There is no rhyme or reason. This doesn’t blend. If only he’d known how lucky he was then. When the love of his stupid, worthless life was still breathing beside him. He had had no idea what it was to ache. 

There’s a silence filled only by his airless crying. Tony breaks it abruptly, without warning: “Steve.” 

And Steve is so pathetic, he races to his shaking feet at that, presses his hands up on the glass, blinks tears from his eye so he can see his mouth move— hear him speak just one more time. 

“What, Tony? What is it, love?” Steve practically begs. 

The anticipation is terrible, twisting in his gut. But Tony’s face doesn’t change. His lips barely shift to make room for his words. “Steve, we’re taking you off the sedative now.” 

Confused, Steve just tilts his head. “I don’t—“

“We had to restrain you,” Tony interrupts, still staring at Steve with that vacant expression that Steve’s seen on the corpse of every open-casket funeral he’s been to. “So don’t be scared.” 

“I don’t— I don’t understand,” Steve says, shaking his head. It doesn’t make sense. “Tony, where are you?” 

All he has to say is, “it’s time to wake up, Steve.” 

And when Steve blinks in confusion, trying to straighten out his thoughts, Tony’s gone. 

The world comes into focus slowly, sluggishly, in the way it only ever does when you’re waking up from a restless sleep. Steve can do nothing but wait, wonder how he lost Tony in the space of his own head, and watch the ceiling tiles sew themselves together above him. 

It feels like it’s somehow been both hours and seconds when someone with a low, scratchy voice speaks from beside him: “Are you with us, Cap?” 

After a solid minute of trying to find his own tongue, he answers, ever so eloquently, “Yeah.” 

The bed he’s been lying on moves then, shifting him up from his horizontal position into a reclined sit. It’s a little more dignified. Not that Steve really gives a shit about that or anything else right now. 

Bruce’s face comes into view first, then Natasha, Thor, and Clint. They’re all here. 

With one festering, painful, exception. 

“How do you feel, Steve?” Bruce asks, voice tentative and overly calming. 

Steve turns to look at him, hoping he can convey how dumb that fucking question was through facial expression alone, but stops short when he sees just how deep the sadness is etched into the doctor’s face. Dark, bruise-like shadows fall under red-rimmed eyes; bitten lips pursed into a tight line on the verge of quivering. 

So Steve just does an act of kindness and says, “I’m alright.” 

Bruce nods. Though Steve interpreted it as a simple affirmation, it was apparently a cue for Clint to remove the puffy white straps on his wrists. Steve feels the ache settle even deeper in his chest when he sees how shaky the usually rock-steady hands of the archer are. When his arms are revealed to the dim, med-bay overhead lights, he can see the mottled shades of blue and purple where he must have pulled too hard on the restraints. But Steve doesn’t really care. Doesn’t even really care if they heal. Doesn’t really care about much. 

Because he lost everything. 

Though the haze of the sedative makes it difficult to fully comprehend much, Steve still makes an effort to look around at his team and examine them. (Tony would call him ‘mother hen’ and laugh and Steve would relax a little, remembering how capable they all are of taking care of themselves. But Tony’s not here. He’s never gonna be here again.) 

Thor, always the booming, loud center of the room is uncharacteristically silent; glaring at the floor beneath him with arms crossed, like he’s trying to hold himself together. Clint’s whole body is shivering, convulsing in strange patterns, and he’s removed his hearing aids. Steve doesn’t have to ask to know; Clint can’t bear to not hear Tony’s shitty rock music from three floors down with the infallible tech that Tony built for him when complained once (just one time, but that’s all Tony needed to do something kind for anyone) about his old aids. Natasha’s (who Steve’s seen take multiple bullets and not cry) standing against the far wall; eyes closed, but with a steady flow of silent tears leaking down her face like a river. 

It’s evident that none of them are okay. 

“What do we—“ Steve begins, but something catches in his throat. He coughs out of pure habit, knowing logically that it’s grief. The feeling of never quite catching his breath isn’t ever really going to go away. “What do we do?” 

And he waits. For a minute, for three, for ten. 

But no one answers. 

No one knows. 

There’s never really anything you can do, when you love someone and you lose someone. 

All you can do is wish they were home, but know they never will be again. 

———-

The team doesn’t know it, but just twelve blocks away from the tower, Tony Stark is free. 

Covered in Baldie’s blood and oil and all the shit he had to do get out of that room. 

But he’s free. 

And he’s on his way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for being with me through my first ever marvel fic!!! i had an absolute blast writing it, and if you have requests or ideas for my next fic, i’d love to hear it. 
> 
> and i’m sorry it’s a day late— things have been so crazy. 
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed bc i love talking to y’all!
> 
> thanks again!

Tony loves New York. 

He truly does. He always has, and he always will. From the bottom of the city’s rat infested streets to the tip of its energy-insufficient towers, he loves it. 

And he really loves it now in the dead of the night, as he’s crawling out under the bottom of an iron-barred window, ribs scraping up on the cement when he finally squeezes in tight enough to fall through the open gap. He hears his body hit the ground more than he feels it. Adrenaline is a funny thing. 

He loves New York, because the three people perched on a dumpster behind him hardly spare a parting glance when he takes off running from the building he must have been held captive in for (two, maybe three? it’s hard to keep track) days. No one here gives half a shit if your hands are caked in blood, your face dripping sweat. They’re like wasps; if you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. 

The cold chill of the early spring wind bites at his exposed arms; nipping up his neck and bringing tears to his eyes, but Tony smiles despite the discomfort. Because he did it. He fought his way free. Not for the first time either. Houdini has nothing on him at this point. 

That’s not to say it hadn’t been a close thing. It’d taken hours of careful planning, lying, and collection of inconspicuous but volatile ingredients on Tony’s part. But he’d played Baldie like a fucking fiddle in the end. 

Jesus, the things that people will believe as long as you’re feeding their ego along the way. 

Tony had pretended to cave after a few, admittedly well-placed and likely severe-injury-inducing (he already knew and dreaded the fact that Steve was going to freak out about them), punches to his face, ribs, and stomach. He’d just simply let his pain show through the mask; pretended he couldn’t take it when Baldie taunted him. Tony was Academy-Award deserving for the performance he gave--- begging Baldie to stop, sobbing that he’d do what he wanted so long as he please, please, please just let him die mercifully in the end. And Baldie, that fucking idiot, smiled at, unbound, and brought him everything he needed. 

Everything including the materials to make the shitty little blade-bomb-all-in-one Tony had stabbed through his heart (Tony doesn’t want to admit it, since it makes him sound like the villains he loathes so deeply, but seeing Baldie bleed was so fucking satisfying). 

Of course, ever the pragmatist, he’d built and planted another small remote bomb on one of the guards during a shift change. The detonation, other than worsening a few of Tony’s first few burns from the initial explosion, was successful. No one lived to follow him out of the building, at least. 

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that when he sees the sidewalk, he nearly misses it. But he doesn’t dare slow down; knowing men like Baldie usually have ground patrol close to their station. His bare feet bang against the pavement, cutting up the skin there. He hardly feels it. He just needs to get home. 

Tony’s luck appears to be never-ending tonight. No one stops him and asks him just what the fuck his problem is, even the policeman he knocks shoulders with on fifth street. Apparently, not a single person wants to talk with the (supposedly dead) Tony Stark. Then again, he hasn’t seen his reflection, and can’t imagine the black bruises he can feel throbbing on his face are very helpful to identifying him. 

The run is long on his aching ribs and lungs; each breath marked by an uglier sound than the last one produced. An inhale sounds more like a muffled scream than an exhale, which sounds similar to a sputtering engine.

None of this is to mention the migraine pulsating with the force of a million heartbeats in his poor head. As it turns out, the stress of life-or-death situations and an enhanced, angry dickbag beating the shit out of you isn’t really beneficial to someone who already had a concussion to begin with.

Tony’s just beginning to think he might not even make it home; has to stop, wrap one shaking hand around screaming ribs and press another to his pounding temples to keep from losing it completely. Fuck, it all hurts like a son of a bitch, and he can hardly stand against it--- let alone keep going. But then he looks up at the clean, night sky. Sees that the Avengers tower is so close.

He makes like himself in the desert so many years ago. 

He aches. He wants to stop. 

He walks. 

\---------------------

No one wants to leave Steve alone. 

They don’t say so in such direct words, but it’s clear by how they all attempt making transparent excuses about why their presence is required in the common room rather than where they should be sleeping in their beds, seeing as it must be after midnight. 

“I could make us all some tea?” Bruce offers, heartfelt but see-through. “Steve, you haven’t eaten in a day. With your metabolism—“ 

“I’m fine,” Steve says, flat. He isn’t hungry. He isn’t thirsty. He isn’t tired. He isn’t anything. Why they’re all pretending that life is going to go on fine for him after this, Steve has no fucking clue. 

“I’ll call Pepper. She probably wants to talk to you,” Natasha finally speaks, breaking the awkward silence Steve was admittedly unaware had been permeating. “Arrangements have to be made eventually.”

Steve turns to look at her, prepared to level her with the most angry glare he can muster. But he just feels his heart sink impossibly lower in his stomach. Her face; so usually perfectly expressionless and trained, betrays a fraction of the grief she’s often hiding (which is unprecedented for the assassin.) No one that didn’t know her would be able to tell, but Steve— who’s sketched her a million times over— can see the stress held in the near undetectable purse of her lips, a small crease in the space between her eyebrows. 

She took it rougher than anyone other than Steve, but it was to be expected. Tony was her true friend— someone she more than loved. She trusted him. After every selfless thing he’d done for her time and time again; building special holsters for the guns next to her bed so she wouldn't wake up with a hand cramp from holding one, buying out the ballet studio close to their tower and relocating it somewhere else so she wouldn’t ever be reminded of her less-than-stellar childhood, redesigning her battle gear again and again to better protect her, needing her as more than an asset but as a friend, she trusted him. 

Steve had trusted him, too. 

“You guys can all head to bed,” Clint says abruptly, unexpectedly. It’s the first time Steve’s heard him speak in days, and even Thor, who’s been steadfastly ignoring everyone’s eyes (no one has to ask to know he’s feeling guilty for not saving their shellhead) looks up in surprise. The archer is still trembling, but he put his hearing aids back in. Steve would be happy for that if he could feel anything other than what it feels like to have loved and lost Tony fucking Stark. “My arrows need polishing. I’ll stand guard with Steve.”

Of course, JARVIS’ defense mechanisms are still running as strong as ever. They’re not especially vulnerable or lacking the protection they had last week. They’re still safe. 

They’re just missing the person who made them feel that way. 

“I’m fine,” Steve repeats. “I can watch, Barton. If you’re worried.” 

“Cap,” Bruce says. And there’s so much in that nickname. There’s worry, reproach, pain, concern, grief. How Tony used to say it when he had to tell him something hard to hear. It makes him ache even more. “We’re just worried about you. These are hard times for everyone; I understand that. But you have to—“ 

“What?” Steve cuts in, voice like knives and steel even to his own ears. He knows objectively, somewhere in the very back of his brain, that talking like this to a man who transforms into a ten-foot, green rage-monster when upset is probably a bad idea, but he can’t stop himself. He’s angry. He’s so fucking angry. “What? What do I have to do? What the fuck do you want me to do, Bruce?” 

“Steven, please be calm. Banner means you no ill, nor do I or anyone—“ Thor interjects. But Steve isn’t done yet. He’s so furious. He doesn’t even know where the fury comes from— but it’s strong. It’s brutal. It’s as bad as the sadness and then some. 

“No, do tell me just what the hell I’m supposed to do in this situation. I’m open to suggestion,” Steve spits. Bruce looks taken aback, though he quickly schools his expression into resignation. When Steve looks around and sees everyone else has done the same, staring at him with a vacant look, it just makes him impossibly angrier. How can anyone not be angry right now? “Because I have to live the rest of my life without him. We all do. And I don’t know what the fuck I, or any of us, have to do so badly in the face of that.” 

Steve feels like he can’t breathe again; like he’s breathing with Tony’s dead lungs. Like he’s just a kid in Brooklyn again, having lost both his parents, his parents. He’s homeless again— because without Tony, this is nothing but an overpriced skyscraper in the world’s shittiest city. 

“It’ll take some time, but—“ Nat starts, quiet, well-intentioned. She just wants him to feel better. Steve sees red. 

“I loved him!” he yells, and fuck it’s really hitting now. The weight of what he doesn’t have anymore, sinking down through his skin, crushing his organs, flatlining his heart. He thinks of Tony’s smile, and he thinks this is what it’s like to be buried alive. “I loved him— and he’s never gonna know! I can’t fucking tell him! I’ll never get to tell him!” 

“He knew, Steve,” Clint says. The archer won’t look at him; tears falling freely while he gazes off into an unspecified distance. “He had to have known we all loved him.” 

“How?” Steve demands in response. He knows he should wait; should take a breath and pull it together, but Tony’s dead and he just can’t. “It’s not like we ever told him! He saved all of our asses a million times over—“ he has to stop, release the choked sob crawling it’s way up his breathless lungs. “He saved all of our lives, and we didn’t even say thank you— did we?” 

There’s a somber silence at that. Because they didn’t. They’d nod a little, say “this’ll work” when he built them a new invention that’d be the only reason they didn’t get killed in a mission next week, and dump their shit on his desk when they needed it fixed. 

And Tony had fixed it. Because Tony had loved them. And he had died believing the team didn’t love him just as much back. 

“Let’s give Steve some space, guys,” Nat ends up saying— sounding only a little bit strangled. A little bit like the world is ending. She gets up from the sofa, touches Clint on the shoulder, gathers Bruce and Thor on her way. It’s obvious her intent is to take care of them before herself as she herds them all into the elevator. And even though Steve has been nothing but cruel tonight, she says in all softness, “We’ll see you in the morning, Cap.” 

The elevator door closes. 

Steve’s alone. 

And sitting in the dark (JARVIS must have turned the lights off out of courtesy) all by himself in this big room, Steve breaks. 

The sobs wrack him in earnest; ripping up through his aching chest and out his stupid mouth that’s never gonna get to kiss Tony goodnight, never gonna get to say he’s sorry, never gonna tell him that sometimes when he watches Tony work, he thinks for the first time since coming out of the ice— he’s gonna be okay. Because Tony is dead. He’s dead. 

And dead people don’t hear living words. 

His crying is so loud that when he hears the elevator door open again, he hardly registers it. He can’t bring himself to stop the tears, even though it’s embarrassing as all living hell. It’s probably just Natasha, Steve reasons. And Natasha misses him too. She’ll understand. 

Her footsteps echo on the floor for a few seconds, coming closer and closer, stopping when he can feel someone standing above him on the couch. 

After a few seconds pass and there’s no snarky comment or painful condolence forthcoming, Steve brings his head out of his hands. He should apologize for yelling. It was wrong. Everyone’s hurting right now, Bruce was right. 

He wipes at his eyes so he can see a little clearer, looks up to Natasha with what has to be the wobbliest, most fake smile in the world. 

And it falls straight off. 

Because it’s not Natasha, looking down at him. 

It’s Tony. 

Tony. 

Tony, who Steve lost two days ago. Tony, with bruises and blood and dirt and mud all over him. Tony, wearing a horrified expression that doesn’t make sense because he’s breathing. 

He’s alive. 

“Tony,” Steve chokes. “Tony—“ 

“Who did we lose?” Tony asks before Steve can get another word in, devastation plain on his beautiful, beautiful, face (God, did Steve even ever know how beautiful he was? Even beaten to high hell, he’s so beautiful. He’s the most beautiful person Steve’s ever seen.) “Was it— was it Nat? Clint?” 

Steve barely gets to his feet, legs shaking with the weight of his body. With the weight of hope because 

Tony is alive. 

He’s breathing. 

Steve reaches with limbs that act on their own accord, hardly in control of himself. He pulls an unexpectant Tony into his arms, hugs him tight against his chest, drops his head into the mess of Tony’s hair and just breathes.

Steve will never ask for anything ever again because Tony is alive. Breathing. 

“Oh, God,” Steve says. It becomes a mantra, something he can’t stop saying because oh, god. Oh, god. Tony is alive. “Oh, God. Thank God.” 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Steve,” Tony says. Steve suddenly feels the mechanic’s hands come up to wrap around his shoulders, deepening the embrace. He nearly faints. This is too good to be true. But then Tony throws a wrench in the fantasy by turning to plead into Steve’s ear with a horribly broken voice (this can’t just be a pleasant dream if Tony’s in pain.) “Tell me who we lost. Please.” 

And that makes no fucking sense to Steve. He pulls back then, still keeping Tony’s shoulders tight between both his hands like the mechanic might fall through them if he lets up. Reading his face doesn’t clarify anything; all Steve sees is the same nonsensical sadness mingling with the fresh injuries across his jaw and temple. 

He also sees the incredible beauty, too. He sees it above all else. The big, brown Bambi eyes, the thick and glistening lashes growing just above and below them, the perfect curve of his chin and lips. 

He’s so beautiful. And he’s alive. 

“You,” Steve whispers, still staring in wonder. Shock. Amazement. Disbelief. “We lost you, Tony.” 

It’s Tony’s turn to look confused then. The genius tilts his head, shakes it a little which ruffles his hair (that would have bounced with the movement if it wasn’t matted to his head with sweat, and— blood?) 

Steve feels concern— the first thing he’s felt that wasn’t grief in days— for the man. Wonders for the first time why the Avengers didn’t want to look for a body. Wonders where Tony has been. 

Wonders if he’s hurt worse than in his face. 

But just as Steve is about to ask, Tony interrupts. 

“No, you’re not— you’re not crying over me being gone, are you?” When Steve’s only response is to raise his eyebrows, look just as perplexed back at him, Tony continues. “Why would you… You know that I left the tower to you, don’t you?”

Steve didn’t know that. 

And Steve couldn’t give less of a fuck. 

“Tony, we lost you.” Steve looks into Tony’s big, aching eyes. Feels a rush of affection so strong it hurts. “I lost you.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Tony says, as if it’s an obvious and dismissable thing to say. “I just don’t get why you’re so upset.” 

For what feels like the millionth time in the past few days, Steve’s heart breaks. Because Tony really doesn’t know how much he’s loved— doesn’t know that no one can sleep, Pepper won’t eat, Rhodey took an indefinite leave of absence from work and Steve—Steve can’t take this bullshit. 

He wraps a gentle hand around his neck, draws him in close. For all his intelligence, the genius is still incredibly slow to see what’s coming. 

Steve leans down, kisses him slowly, softly, carefully (even though Steve has to shove down the instinct to take him apart then and there because fuck does he love him.) 

Tony tastes like metal and air. 

Tastes like breathing. 

Steve hears the quick inhale through Tony’s nose and understands his time is over; tries to memorize the buzzing, drunk high of their lips touching, knowing he’ll never be that close again. Knowing it’ll be the best kiss of his life and he’ll never get a better one. But it’s okay. Just five minutes ago, Steve had been under the impression he was doomed to live his whole life without knowing what it felt like. And now he knew. 

So Steve draws back, apology already on the tip of his tongue when he reads Tony’s shell shocked face. 

Imagine Steve’s surprise as Tony’s expression abruptly turns more determined than he’s ever seen it (and he’s seen the man save New York single handedly a thousand times) and then feels the mechanic’s lips crush onto his. 

Steve, never one to question a good thing, just pulls Tony in deeper. 

They’re trying to be careful; it’s obvious Tony is injured and Steve is in no state to be getting out of hand, but they’re fire and gasoline. Steve douses the ground and Tony strikes a match. Each gasped breath between desperate kisses is an inferno. They’re burning alive. 

Steve thinks, if this is how they die, he’s alright with that. 

But when Steve bites his lip a little too hard and Tony gives an involuntary hiss, Steve summons the strength to pull back— still breathing hard. 

He finds Tony’s staring at him like he’s the sun; like he’s having a world altering epiphany or being born again under a new god. 

Like he’s beginning to get it. 

“I love you,” Steve says, plain and simple, so there can be no mistake about it. He brings his hands up to cradle Tony’s face in his palms; holding the whole world between them. “I love you so much, Tony. You’re my best friend. And I thought I was going to have to spend the rest of my life without you and I— I couldn’t do it. I love you too much. It’s not worth it without you. None of it is.” 

Tony looks so incredibly lost for words. For once, it seems the genius doesn’t have a clue what to say. Steve would feel smug if he could feel anything other than relief and love and joy. 

But then he does feel something else. 

Fear. 

Because Tony looks at him, smiles. 

His big, beautiful eyes roll into the back of his head. And he collapses. 

—————

 

Why does everything have to beep to wake Tony up? 

The oven, timers, alarms, cell phone. It can never be something peaceful and kind that draws him into consciousness. It’s always annoying as all living fuck. 

“Ugh, God— can someone please turn it off?” Tony groans. He hears the whole room shift around him; people getting to their feet and rushing to where he is, decides to play to his advantage. “I’m not waking up till that fucking beeping stops.” 

There’s silence. Thank fuck. 

A man of his word, Tony pulls back the heavy curtain of his eyelids. Blinks at the lights and ceiling above them. Recognizes the ceiling tile. Medbay, he thinks. 

Oh shit, he thinks. 

He really wakes up then; tries to lift himself up from the bed where he’s lying down, attempting to get his elbows beneath him, ignoring the ache in his ribs as he goes. 

But he feels some asshole’s hand press down heavy on his chest, pushing him back and effectively erasing his hard-won progress in getting vertical. 

Tony looks for the source, turning to his right with angry intent, only to have it immediately soften. Because he finds big, kind blue eyes staring back at him. 

“Let’s just take it easy, huh?” Steve suggests, smiling so soft and gentle that Tony’s head goes fuzzy for a second. “You’ve been through a lot in the past few days.” 

It takes a moment for him to find his tongue. 

“You mean— you mean, when I was dead” Tony jokes, going for humor. He realizes that it’s ineffective as Steve’s face crumples out of its contented state. 

He hears Natasha affirm his judgement from somewhere to his right: “That’s literally the least funny thing I have ever heard you say.” 

Tony grimaces and nods a little (feels the elastic pull of bandages on his face when he does so.) 

“Alright, guys. Stop harassing my patient,” a voice comes in from the door, rapidly approaching with light footsteps towards his bedside. 

Tony shifts modes, smiling in earnest now even though he can feel his stitches strain at that. “Brucie Bear!” 

“How are you feeling, Tony?” There’s a click of some buttons behind him before his bed is elevating into a reclined position; finally bringing the world into focus. The doctor bustles around, checking his IV’s (he didn’t know he had IV’s, god fucking dammit he hates IV’s.) “Hopefully a little less concussed?” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Tony says, dismissive. He doesn’t want to admit he’s got a migraine like a bitch because then they’ll want him in bed rest for way, way too long. “I’m all better, Doc.”

Bruce eyes him before saying, voice heavy with skepticism, “Uh huh.” 

“Really, I’m fine,” Tony insists. And because Tony is still concussed and dumb as hell and his humor when he’s like this straight up sucks, he says, smirking, “You only wish I wasn’t.” 

Harsh, harsh silence follows. 

“No, Tony,” Bruce says. His expression is harder than Tony’s ever seen it. “I don’t.” 

Tony, admittedly a little ashamed at not noticing before, really looks then. There’s fatigue engraved deep in his friends face; like he’s aged decades in days. A greenish hue covers his cheekbones, and the wrinkles lining his forehead are overly pronounced. 

Out of morbid curiosity, Tony turns a little to Natasha. He sees her perched on the windowsill; hands tucked in close to her chest like they’re cradling her heart. Her eyes are red rimmed, hair a wild mess. She doesn’t look away from his gaze, like if she does he’ll disappear. Next to her sits Clint, bow in hand, watching out the window with a protectiveness unlike even his usual paranoia. 

Huh. Well he’ll be damned. Maybe they do give more than a shit about him. 

It’s kind of touching, really. But there’s an absence. 

“Where’s Thor?” Tony asks. 

“He went to go make sure the people that took you paid up,” Steve answers, voice hard, almost like he’s jealous of the opportunity. Maybe he is. 

“Will you go look for him if he’s not back soon?” Tony says, looking to Steve. “I think I’m entitled to worry.” 

“Worry about yourself,” Steve responds. The same kind, teasing smile slowly grows itself back onto his lips which Tony is very suddenly reminded of kissing. “I’ll get him if he’s gone too long. You just get some rest.”

“I’m not tired,” Tony says, trying to sound adamant. Truth is, he didn’t sleep to well on whatever pain medication cocktail Bruce has him on. “I’m well rested and ready to go.” 

“Go back to sleep, Tony,” Nat interjects. There’s no room for argument in her tone, and when Tony turns to look at her, her face doesn’t betray any weakness of conviction. “Thor will be here when you wake up. We all will.” 

Tony shakes his head at that (and fuck does it hurt, concussions fucking suck.) “No, that’s alright. You can all go do what you want to do. I’ll be—“ 

“We’re staying,” Clint speaks up. He doesn’t look away from the window, though if the tense posture of his body is anything to go by, he means it. 

“But—“

“Tony,” Steve interrupts. “We love you. We’re staying. Now go to sleep.” 

And Tony’s is as confused by that as he is happy, and he thinks about it when Bruce ups his morphine and he falls down the rabbit hole of unrestful slumber. For the first time in years, he doesn’t have bad dreams. 

He dreams of being loved. 

————

The next few weeks are weird, to say the least. 

Not a day goes by that at least one person on the team doesn’t pull Tony aside in a hallway, catch him before a briefing or find him in his workshop to tell him that they appreciate him and all he does for them. 

They always have him sit on the inside seat of every restaurant they go to, like they’re united by the common goal of standing between Tony Stark and whatever danger could crawl through IHOP’s door at six p.m. 

It’s kind of nice. And also so, so fucking weird. 

And it’s also starting to drive Tony crazy. 

He’s laboring the day (or maybe night, he’s not really sure) away in his workshop, sewing together a new kind of fabric for Bruce’s uniform with the utmost concentration when Steve walks through the door— not holding his notebook in hand. 

Tony hangs his head. God fucking... The only times Steve doesn’t bring his notebook are the times that he’s either gonna lecture Tony, try to get him to go to bed, or inform him of the time. None of which Tony particularly cares for. 

“What’s happening’, Cap’n?” Tony asks, trying to keep the annoyance he feels from his tone and only narrowly succeeding. “Did Clint get stuck in a vent again?” 

When there’s no response to his dumb joke (Steve almost always laughs, even if Tony’s not funny), he looks up from the vibranium trousers he’s making to see what’s happening. 

Steve looks nervous— an unusual thing to see. He’s got his big hands tucked into pockets, his shoulders hunched in awkwardly, face tilting tilted toward the ground. Tony can practically feel the anxiety rolling off him in waves. It makes him uncomfortable. And sad. 

“Steve?” Tony asks, in that innocent, small voice that always makes Steve get him what he wants. 

It works like a charm. Steve’s eyes snap up, curious. 

“Yeah, Tony?” 

“Is everything alright?” 

That gives Steve pause.. 

They haven’t kissed since the night Tony came back from the dead. The two haven’t exactly been avoiding one another, but now, almost every exchange between them is a little awkward. They dance around each other with careful steps. And it’s not awkward with regret— more like awkward knowing what could have been in every interaction. Knowing Tony could be kissing Steve over pancakes and coffee. Knowing he could hold him close if things were different. 

If things were alright. 

But Tony understands people say things they don’t mean in the heat of the moment and he doesn’t hold it against Steve. Steve, who tastes like fresh water. Steve, who slips into a Brooklyn accent when he’s flustered. 

Steve, who Tony is still hopelessly in love with. Even if he knows it’s not going to work out. 

“Tony, I—“ Steve begins, rattling Tony from his thoughts. “I want to tell you something. Something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” 

“Okay,” Tony says, casually, as if that doesn’t make him incredibly nervous. “What is it?” 

Steve takes a big, deep breath in. 

“I’m in love with you.” 

Tony feels the air go out of his lungs like he’s been fucking punched. 

“Uh— what?” He asks, dumbly. 

Steve looks frantic then, sputtering, “I know that it’s bad timing and I should have told you a long time ago because Tony, I’ve loved you for a long, long time and then I lost you and I thought I’d never get to tell you but I—“ 

“Steve,” Tony interrupts. Steve goes still, eyes wide and searching. Tony can feel his heart hammering up against his chest; fluttering in his throat. “Do you really mean that?” 

Steve crosses the floor like a man possessed, rounds the corner of his desk so he’s standing over a frankly shells shocked Tony. He drops to his knees as if his legs were made of lead. 

“I do, Tony,” he says. And he’s so sincere— looking up at Tony with wonder and amazement and pain and. And love. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same, but I just had to tell you that I—“ 

Tony’s not really in control of his body when he kisses Steve. It’s an instinctual thing— like breathing. He just closes his eyes, winds his hand in the lapels of Steve’s shirt and just fucking kisses him for all he’s worth. 

Steve kisses him back.


End file.
